


Dr. Watson's Hands

by 221b_careful_what_you_wish_for



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Backstory, Childhood Memories, Desire, Developing Relationship, Experienced Sherlock, First Kiss, Fix-It, Friends to Lovers, John back at Baker St, John's POV, M/M, Mary is gone, Mutual Pining, Pining, Post-His Last Vow, Post-Season/Series 03, Seduction, Sex, Sexual Tension, Sherlock's POV, Slow Build, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-19
Updated: 2014-05-03
Packaged: 2018-01-13 02:08:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 8,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1208869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221b_careful_what_you_wish_for/pseuds/221b_careful_what_you_wish_for
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Short stories about Sherlock and John's emerging relationship, with a slow build around deliciously suggestive domestic situations and finding the erotic in everyday small gestures.<br/>1. Dr. Watson's Hands<br/>2. The Clean Line<br/>3. A Row of Dark Suits<br/>4. The Taste of Smoke<br/>5. What You Want<br/>6. Visceral<br/>7. Homecoming<br/>8: Scissors, Stasis, Skin<br/>9. The First Few Steps<br/>10. Lie Down<br/>11. Knocking Things Sideways<br/>12. The Room Burned<br/>13. Clandestine<br/>14. Melting Ice<br/>15. Undone<br/>16. Small Spaces Opened Up<br/>17. True North<br/>Set after His Last Vow; John has left Mary and is again living at Baker Street.<br/>For a prequel, you may want to start with "His Coffee Mug and Gun."<br/>(This was a self-challenge to write a set of related 500-word or less vignettes with alternating POVs.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dr. Waton's Hands

John laid out an old towel on the kitchen table and began dismantling the pistol to clean it. The motions were familiar, part of the muscle memory he had learned from army life. He added a drop of oil to the cleaning brush and ran it into the barrel from the chamber end.

As he worked, he thought back to his father, who had taught him how to fish and shoot as a boy when they visited the countryside on holiday. His dad had been a doctor. He’d also been a drinker.

Sherlock passed through the room, a sheaf of papers in his hands. John noticed that Sherlock had stopped and was now watching him work on the Sig Sauer. Sherlock could handle a gun, had used this gun with deadly force, in fact, but John knew he lacked the expertise he was now displaying.

John glanced up. “Watch and learn,” he said, smiling slightly.

“I will,” Sherlock answered, putting down the papers, his eyes first flicking over the disassembled components then carefully taking in John’s movements.

John continued the process, detached as he watched his own hands clean the exterior of the barrel. These hands, trained to save lives, had also been trained to take lives. At times he still had trouble reconciling the two. Mostly he just went on with things, managing day by day.

He oiled the recoil spring, still remembering. When he was 9, he’d had a bicycle accident. His father had stitched up a cut on his leg, his touch steady and gentle. When he was 13, his father had taught him how to throw a punch. When he was 15, he threw a punch at his father. Things were never the same after that.

John reassembled the pistol and cleaned off the excess oil with a fresh cloth. He placed the gun back in the lock box, clicked it shut. He looked up to find Sherlock’s gaze on him.

“Nicely done, Dr. Watson,” Sherlock said quietly.


	2. The Clean Line

Sherlock admired John’s economy of movement as he reassembled the gun and placed it in the lock box. His efficiency, forged both by his training as a doctor and as a soldier, was always a pleasure to witness.

What he didn't particularly care for about John's military background was his deeply instilled allegiance to duty, which ran counter to his own deep distrust of authority. At some abstract level, however, he could _almost_ appreciate a soldier's mindset; it was, after all, a key part of John’s decisiveness and steady hands during a crisis.

He glanced at his own hands, the long, tapered fingers suited for playing the violin or filling syringes or pulling a trigger, but not for saluting an officer or treating a patient. Those were things he could not fathom.

Sherlock saw the resemblance of his hands to his father’s, which appeared in flashes of memory -- holding the newspaper, resting quietly on the table, lifting in farewell. Never had they been raised in anger.

Sherlock wondered briefly about John’s parents. He spoke of his sister Harry, but no one else. What two people had collided to form John Watson?

John was standing across the table from him, clearing up the area where he had field stripped the gun. He glanced up and Sherlock looked down, picking up the papers he had been holding earlier.

Then he looked again at John; something had caught his eye. It was John’s shirt collar. The edge was slightly turned under on the left side. It was a small thing, really, but the asymmetry grated on his sensibilities.

He turned away, then turned back. He couldn't bear the minor imprecision marring John's otherwise perfect silhouette.

Without thinking, Sherlock reached out. “Stop moving.”

John stilled, surprise on his face as Sherlock slid two fingers under the edge of his collar, carefully freeing the material that had been folded under. Sherlock smoothed the fabric between his thumb and fingers until it was symmetrical, the clean line restored.

“There,” Sherlock said, withdrawing his hand slowly.

He saw John swallow hard, his eyes now fixed on the corner of the room.

He shouldn’t have done it, Sherlock thought belatedly about his gesture. He knew John couldn't trust him -- or anyone -- completely, not after all that had happened. He didn't blame him.

The table lay between them like a vast gulf. Neither said anything.

After another moment Sherlock shifted the papers in his hands, lowered his head, and left the kitchen.

He didn’t notice John’s eyes follow him, or see John’s fingers slowly travel to his neck where he had touched him.


	3. A Row of Dark Suits

John did not enjoy having to tidy up after Sherlock, but he didn’t like tripping over books, papers, and empty tea cups either. Sherlock was out, so John took the opportunity to stack up his belongings and dump them back on his desk.

There was one of Sherlock’s suit jackets - expensive, of course - hanging over the back of the desk chair. John had been raised to never leave clothing scattered about, and the army had further drilled that habit into him. He sighed and picked up the jacket, draping it over his arm.

He walked down the hallway to Sherlock’s bedroom. He hadn’t been in his room all that many times, so it felt a bit odd to enter without permission. Well, Sherlock had apparently drugged him on more than one occasion, so respect for personal boundaries didn’t exactly come into play at this point.

John paused by the half-open door, suddenly recalling the shock he had felt seeing Janine emerge from the room in nothing but Sherlock’s shirt. The coldness with which Sherlock had equated love to ‘human error’ replayed in his mind. He squared his shoulders, placed his hand on the doorknob, and went in.

The temperature was so much cooler back here, he noticed. He glanced at the bed, neatly made. An image of Irene Adler asleep under the sheets flashed before him, causing him some additional discomfort. He wondered who else, if anyone, had been here before he had moved back to Baker Street.

He forced his eyes elsewhere, noticing that the whole room was orderly. How could Sherlock manage to be neat here and no where else in the flat?

Shaking his head, John went to the wardrobe and opened the door. He was greeted by the scent of cedar and a hint of cigarette smoke. Sherlock was never going to manage to quit entirely, he mused.

He carefully arranged the jacket on a sturdy hanger, then placed it back among the others. He stood there in the dim light, reluctant to leave. On an impulse, he ran his fingertips along the row of dark suits, feeling the fineness of the material. He felt a strange ache rise in his chest.

He should go. He shut the wardrobe door and turned to leave. He was startled to see Sherlock framed in the doorway to the room.

“Find anything interesting?” Sherlock asked.

“I was... I was hanging up your jacket.” John's face went hot. He felt as if he’d been caught stealing something.

Sherlock shrugged off his coat, then pulled off his blue scarf. “I know. I saw you.”

He smiled inscrutably and left John standing in the bedroom.


	4. The Taste of Smoke

The murder scene had been a grisly one with multiple victims. It was clearly drug-related, a boss ruthlessly settling a score with some middlemen who had gotten greedy. Called in by Lestrade for his knowledge of international crime syndicates, Sherlock pieced together evidence pointing to a specific drug ring trafficking heroin out of Pakistan.

Finished, they stepped back out into the cold. Sherlock glanced at John as he lifted the police tape. One of the collateral victims had been a child, and he recalled watching John’s expression shift from dismay to pity to a grim hardness when he saw the body.

“Home?” Sherlock asked.

“Let’s walk awhile,” John said. “I need the air.”

It was late, and the streets were deserted as they walked, a stiff breeze causing them to sink deeper into their coats. At a corner, Sherlock reached into his pocket and pulled out cigarettes and a lighter. 

“I’ll have one.”

Sherlock looked at John, surprised. “Let’s move up there,” he said, motioning to the stoop of an old stone house. “Out of the wind.”

They climbed the steps and sat in the shelter of the recessed doorway where it was a bit warmer. Sherlock lit John’s cigarette, then his. “So, the good doctor smokes.”

“Rarely,” John said. “Just needed one tonight after that...”

Sherlock nodded. He extended his fingers, examining the cigarette. “Mycroft.”

“Sorry?”

“Mycroft taught me how to smoke,” Sherlock said. “We used to nick them from Mummy, back when practically everyone smoked. She caught me once, was furious, but I distracted her by asking about the combustion process of tobacco and she forgot.”

John smiled. “Smoke and mirrors.”

“Smoke and ash, actually.” Sherlock flicked his cigarette. “I know ash.”

He glanced sideways at John, relieved to see him laugh, his mood lightened a bit. He watched as John took a deep drag, exhaled, then closed his eyes as the nicotine flooded his system.

Sherlock remembered the head-spinning pleasure when he first started smoking. A hint of his future fascination with biochemical stimulation, an unfortunate weakness. He pulled himself back to the present as John opened his eyes again, shadows playing over his features.

Their gazes met and they exchanged slight smiles. Time seemed to stretch out as Sherlock studied John’s face, now unguarded, at ease. He couldn’t recall making a conscious decision, but he remembered leaning closer, finding John’s lips with his own, the warmth contrasting with the cold air, the taste of smoke, an experiment. 

Sherlock drew back, his heart pounding, any ability to read John’s reaction completely compromised. 

John was still for several seconds, cleared his throat. “I need… to think about this,” he said haltingly.

Sherlock looked away and stubbed out the cigarette. “It’s fine. Adrenaline. Chemicals,” he said dismissively, then stood up. “I’ll get a cab.”


	5. What You Want

Days later, John was still unable to disentangle the emotions stirred up at the crime scene from those he felt in the shadows of the doorway. The kiss had been fleeting, but it shook him. In all the years that had passed between them, John could recall with clarity the relatively few times they had touched. This small intimacy was monumental -- unless it was just a fluke, a delayed reaction to stress.

Sherlock never mentioned it, had withdrawn back into the work. John was at a loss, unable to broach the subject. He had closed so much off after Sherlock died -- no, after he _lied and disappeared_ \-- leaving him utterly disoriented.

John was in the kitchen, his empty coffee mug in his hand, intending to make a strong pot of coffee to counteract another sleepless night. He glanced at Sherlock, who was seated at his desk with his back to him, working on the laptop and making occasional notes on the papers next to him. He had thrown the wall up yet again.

John slammed the coffee mug down on the worktop and clenched his hands into fists. God damn it, he couldn’t do this anymore. Not after burying Sherlock for two years, not after the ordeal with Mary, not after all the lies and longing and regret.

He needed an answer, confirmation or denial of what he’d lived with in uncertainty for so long. He crossed the room and stood directly behind Sherlock. “I need to know what you want,” John said, his voice hoarse.

Sherlock did not turn around, the antique silver pen in his hand pausing mid-word for a few heavy seconds, then continuing to move across the paper.

“Fuck this.” John spat the words out as he lunged forward, his arms straddling Sherlock on either side. He seized Sherlock's right hand at the wrist, forcing the pen to drop, and pinned his left hand against the desk. John shoved him forward, his chest pressed into Sherlock’s neck and shoulders to restrain him, his mouth near his temple. He would make him listen this time.

“I need to know,” John repeated slowly, breathing hard, “what you want.”

John could feel tension vibrating in Sherlock’s frame, felt him oscillating between wanting to retain control and wanting to violently throw him off. John would gladly fight him, would fucking love to punish him again.

And then he felt Sherlock go still, his body rigid. His voice, when he finally spoke, was low, almost inaudible. "What I want..." He took a sharp breath. "It's you, John. It's always been you."

John froze, afraid to believe what he'd just heard. He continued to press his weight into Sherlock, could feel the hard leanness of his back, the curls of dark hair brushing his cheek.

He realized he still had Sherlock’s wrist in a tight grip and willed himself to loosen his fingers. John saw that his own hand was shaking when he finally let go.


	6. Visceral

Sherlock noticed the tremor in John’s hand, felt his own blood pounding even as John released his hold and paced a few steps away. Sherlock rubbed his wrist, glad to focus on physical pain. He wanted to feel relief at finally saying the words he’d kept buried for so long; instead, he just felt raw.

John’s head was bowed, his eyes averted. Sherlock wrapped his hands around the edge of the desk, tensed his fingers. Why didn’t John say something? Why drag things to the brink only to back away?

The hell with it.

He pushed the chair back abruptly and closed the distance to John in one swift, dangerous motion. “Your turn,” he seethed, his eyes boring into John’s. “Not what you _think_ , or _should_ , or _ought_ to want, but what do you _want_ , at your basest, most visceral core?”

John’s face flickered with anger, outrage, confusion, a catalog of the turmoil boiling inside of him.

“For fuck’s sake, stop thinking!” Sherlock shouted. “Just answer!”

John’s hands rolled into fists, his eyes searching the ceiling. “I can’t!” The words ripped from his throat. ”Christ…” He pinched the bridge of his nose, stared down at his feet.

Sherlock fell silent, his fingertips steepled together and pressed against his mouth. Of course he couldn’t answer, he thought ruefully. The man had been to hell and back repeatedly, in large part thanks to him. Maybe it was all too much to ask.

Not so long ago, the last thing he wanted was to be distracted from the work. Then John slipped into his life, became part of his routine, slowly expanding his views of what might be possible, even desirable. But it all became secondary to his obsession with taking down Moriarty.

He thought back to the grinding isolation of his self-imposed exile, the relentless pace and constant risk, his erroneous assumption that all would be the same when he returned. The thought of coming home was what had kept kept him going those last months. His fatal error had been his own careless ignorance, his failure to comprehend what effect his absence might have on those he left behind.

“I'm sorry it took me so long to see it," Sherlock finally said, seeming to speak to the air. "I should have done things differently."

John looked at him, his brow furrowed in question.

Sherlock leaned against the desk as he faced John, all anger gone. It was time to unburden himself fully. “I’m full of faults, John. But you… complete me. I don’t expect anything of you. I just want you to know.”

He watched John take a deep breath, the way he always did when he was about say something difficult. His voice was a strained whisper. "I want to trust you,” John warned, pointing at him. “I want to be here, but I can’t go through...” he broke off, shaking his head.

“I know.” Sherlock reached out and circled John’s wrist with his fingers. "Let me try again."


	7. Homecoming

John looked out the window at the rain-soaked suburbs as the train sped back to London. He was returning from an intensive short course on emergency medicine. A refresher on treating gunshot wounds and stabbings seemed not just practical, but necessary, at this point in his career.

He had left town just a few days after the confrontation with Sherlock. Emotions had run so strong that morning that they were both subdued afterwards, quietly letting the reality sink in. In fact, they were almost like strangers again, courteous, a bit distant, but with an unspoken current running underneath. Sherlock hadn’t even been there when he left.

John had to admit he was glad to have a break, had extended his trip by a few days to give himself time to adjust. He never could have predicted that his life would come to this -- cleaving himself to a brilliant, eccentric, moody, dangerous man. A consulting detective, for Christ’s sake.

The fact that he was now… what, involved with? Were those even the right words? Fine then, involved with Sherlock wasn’t a simple matter. Their relationship defied easy categorization, but it ran deep and wild and true.

Well, he had to live this truth, difficult and complicated as it might be, because to do anything else was to live a half life. A shadow life.

He just needed to proceed cautiously. He’d been burned so many times before he wasn’t sure he could ever recover again.

The train slowed and John gathered his belongings. He waited patiently as people jostled and pushed their way through the aisle. He finally rose, retrieved his overnight bag and hitched a smaller bag stuffed with journal articles over one shoulder.

He wondered if he should withdraw some extra cash as he made his way through the station toward the taxi queue. He caught a glimpse of a tall figure slipping through the crowd, dismissed it as his imagination.

A few steps more and Sherlock materialized in front of him. “Hello, John.”

“How did -- ? Never mind.”

"I have a cab waiting.” Sherlock started walking toward an exit and John followed, quietly content, knowing this unexpected reception was Sherlock's way of welcoming him back, of bringing him home as soon as possible.

They climbed into the taxi and were silent for a few moments as it merged into traffic. “Good trip?” Sherlock asked.

“Yeah, really good. In fact,” John reached into his shoulder bag and pulled out a set of articles on the identification of ammunition based on the presentation of gunshot wounds, “I thought you might like these.”

Sherlock took the papers. “Excellent,” he looked pleased as he scanned the text and photos. “Very informative. Pity the image quality is a bit low, though.”

John smiled, then looked out the window again. He let his leg relax against Sherlock’s, feeling the warmth flow through his body.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hang in there, this is a long, slow burn. (Such quiet readers... comments?)


	8. Scissors, Stasis, Skin

It occurred to Sherlock that his hair had gotten too long. He was constantly brushing it out of his eyes or having to run a finger along his collar where it curled under.

He hated wasting valuable time on such trivial tasks. While an expert straight-razor shave was worth a special trip out of the flat, a simple trim was not. He wiped the steam off the bathroom mirror with the sleeve of his blue dressing gown, looked at his damp hair. He would just cut it himself; he’d done it before. 

He rummaged around the bathroom, searching for scissors. He found John’s shaving kit, and in it a pair of shears. Damn. Left-handed grips.

He opened the door, saw John at the kitchen table. “Only ten percent of the population is left-handed," he said accusingly. He held up the scissors. “Are you any good with these?”

It took John several moments to put the pieces together. “I could manage. Can’t you go somewhere for a proper cut?"

“No time; just do it.” He held out the scissors and a comb. “Quickly, please.” 

John sighed, stood up. “It won’t be perfect, but it’ll get you by for a few weeks. Sit."

Sherlock felt the comb run through his hair and John’s fingers measure out a section, heard the snick of the blades, watched a slice of curls fall to the floor. 

“There used to be barber-surgeons, you know,” John said as he worked. “Blood-letting, dental work, and hair cuts, all while sitting in the same chair. No training at Bart’s for this, though."

He continued in silence and Sherlock closed his eyes, almost drifting off. He was no longer in a hurry.

"Nearly finished," John murmured a while later, making a few adjustments on the sides. "Just the back now."

Sherlock bent to the gentle pressure of John’s fingertips tilting his head down, the cool metal of the long blade sliding across the back of his neck, the whisper of steel crossing steel, a precise line cut, the sequence repeated.

John set the comb and scissors down on the table. He lightly swept away stray clippings from Sherlock's neck with a towel, then with his fingers. 

The motions slowed, stopped, and John’s hands curved over his shoulders. Sherlock waited, then felt the warmth of John’s mouth on the nape of his neck where the skin was newly exposed. It was an extremely pleasing sensation, John's lips retracing the path the blades had followed moments ago. 

John’s palm slid down the front of Sherlock’s chest where the robe lay open, his hand resting against his sternum, pressing him back slightly, holding him in stasis as he tasted his skin.

John slowly straightened, and Sherlock savored the few extra seconds John’s hand lingered at the base of his throat before sliding back up and lifting off his shoulder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, any reader feedback would be appreciated!


	9. The First Few Steps

John walked toward Baker Street at a rapid clip, hurrying through the cold drizzle that had been falling all afternoon. Because of the chill in the air, his hands were in his pockets, his fingers curled over the key to the front door. He couldn’t wait to get home. It had been another long day at the clinic -- sore throats, sprains, arthritis, conjunctivitis -- the usual. He’d been picking up quite a few extra shifts; bills never went away. 

At last he reached the familiar door, slipped in the key, pushed it open. Dark. Neither Sherlock nor Mrs. Hudson were in. He stepped into the entryway, wiped his feet, shook out his coat, and sighed, stretching his back. He had just taken the first step upstairs when he heard a key in the lock.

He turned and waited. His pulse jumped as he watched Sherlock prowl into the hallway, collar turned up, pulling off his gloves. They had passed each other only briefly the last few days, both answering to odd hours. 

Sherlock slowed, noticing John in the dim light. “Just getting in?” 

John nodded. He could feel the cool air swirling off the Belstaff, could smell wool and smoke and rain, could see the damp curls on Sherlock’s forehead. He had the urge to touch him.

Sherlock smiled. God, it was so good to be at the receiving end of that expression. It did things to him, made him forget how tired he was, could make him forgive just about anything until he wanted to kill him again. And now Sherlock was reading him like a book, John thought fleetingly.

“Stay there a moment,” Sherlock, his voice a palpable vibration in the growing dark, moved closer. 

Standing on the step, John was now eye-to-eye with him, their heights temporarily equalled. John’s mouth quirked; he rarely had this vantage point, which was a good one for deciphering the ever-shifting color of Sherlock’s eyes. Blue-grey now.

Sherlock’s gaze dropped to John’s mouth, increasing the not unwelcome tension. Apart from that night in the doorway, they had not kissed; they were taking things slow, finding their way to each other one touch at a time, rebuilding trust.

Now in the hallway where they had leaned against the wall winded and laughing on one of the first nights they’d ever met, it seemed right. John involuntarily closed his eyes as their lips met softly, cautiously.

He felt Sherlock’s long fingers nearly lacing behind his head, was vaguely aware of gathering the coat collar-- that damned, sexy high collar -- into his fists and drawing Sherlock in, two magnets locking. 

It was suddenly dizzying, with tongues and mouths and throats, fingers in hair and lips on cheekbones, hands roving, wanting to devour, lowering to the steps, hard edges digging into backs and knees and -- a light flicked on in Mrs. Hudson’s flat, the click of her heels, groceries being dropped on a table.

They stopped, breathless, entangled, grinning.


	10. Lie Down

Sherlock was stretched out on the sofa reading when he heard John come down the steps from his room. He glanced at his watch; it was nearly two in the morning.

John sighed, rubbed his neck. “I can’t sleep. Move.” Sherlock drew up his knees, creating enough space for John to sit next to him.

Sherlock placed the open book on his chest, watched as John passed a hand over his face. Nightmares again, Sherlock thought. He returned to his book, wedging his toes beneath John’s thigh for warmth.

After a few minutes John spoke. “Aren’t you ever bothered by... remembering things? Horrible things you’ve seen, or done?”

Sherlock kept the book raised as vivid images of blood, the sensations of impact and recoil, the sound of gunfire quickly flashed through his mind. He locked them away. “Rarely,” he answered, lowering the book again. “I... compartmentalize.”

John shook his head slightly. “I’m not like that.”

Sherlock gazed at John, his sleeplessness and distress evident. Making a decision, he tossed the book aside. "Come to bed.”

John looked at him uncertainly. This was not an arrangement they’d shared before. Sherlock swung his legs off the sofa, switched off the lamp.

“No use sitting up.” He walked down the hallway toward his room, fully expecting John to follow. Which he did.

John stood hesitantly in the doorway of the dark room. Sherlock took off his dressing gown, pulled off his grey t-shirt, tossed it on a chair. He moved wordlessly to John, took hold of his shirt and lifted it off. His fingertips traced the bullet wound on John’s shoulder. He’d seen glimpses of it before, had never touched it until now.

In return John’s hand went to the scar on Sherlock’s chest. He could read the thoughts going through John’s mind: guilt that Mary had done this to him; that he’d almost died, no magic tricks this time.

Compartmentalize. Focus on the present. Despite all the damage they’d endured, they both were very much alive, half dressed, and inches apart. He wanted to ease John’s pensiveness, but knew it would be unwise to take advantage of such a vulnerable hour. Slowly, then. Just sleep.

He drew back the sheets. “Lie down,” he said.

He slid in next to John, fitting his chest against his back, finding pleasure in the warmth of bare skin and cool sheets. He ran his hand down John’s arm, over his side, lingering above his waist. The contact of John’s body curved against his own made him stiffen, ache, but he resisted acting on it.

He pressed his mouth against the back of John’s neck, then the scar. Irrationally, he wanted to breathe him in, stay hidden in this room forever.

He finally sensed John’s muscles loosening toward sleep, felt his own eyes growing heavy. He moved his hand up to John’s chest where he let his palm rest, allowing himself the sentiment of marveling at the steady beat of John’s heart.


	11. Knocking Things Sideways

John stole a glance at Sherlock across the table. Saturday breakfast. Tea and toast. He wanted to ask something, cleared his throat, played with a corner of the newspaper.

Sherlock spoke without looking up. “Question?”

“Well, it’s personal…”

Sherlock was now assessing him closely. Then he sighed. “Sex. If I’ve ever, and if so, who, when, where... etcetera.”

John shifted. “Er, yes. I mean, it’s a bit… unclear.”

“There’s not much to explain.” Sherlock slowly took a sip of tea, then spoke rapidly. “I’ve always been driven by an insatiable curiosity and a proclivity for risk, which, as you know, is a volatile combination in a mind that’s easily bored. More than a few of my younger days were spent experimenting with the various mechanics of excess. Eventually, I came to a point when I chose not to be compromised by diversions, be they chemical or physical, and devoted myself to the mind and to the work. So while I chose to be celibate for a long period of my life, I’m not inexperienced.” He placed the cup back in the saucer.

John blinked. “You’ve said that before. It’s like a speech.”

“It’s a topic I’ve had to address on occasion.”

John rubbed his temples, trying to take this in. “So, when you were younger, drugs and… sex.”

“Yes. Mostly the former. I was at university some of that time… rehab once or twice."

John nodded. “Then the work and no… distractions.”

“For a number of years.”

John glanced out the window, then down at his hands. “And… you’ve been with men and women?”

“Does it matter?"

“So you’re--”

“I don’t care for labels.”

John snorted. “Says the man who obsessively categorizes tobacco ash and natural fibres.”

“It’s hardly a fair comparison.” Sherlock then looked at John pointedly. “You’ve been with women, obviously, but…?”

John exhaled, “Just... some encounters, at university.”

Sherlock paused. “And Major Sholto?”

John hesitated. “It was complicated. But yes."

There was a brief silence.

“Fluidity,” Sherlock said eventually, glancing down at the paper. “Water flows where it will, changing states of matter depending on the influences of heat and pressure.” He looked up, met John’s eyes. “I think we’re both familiar with the concept.”

John understood his meaning.

He was relieved to finally have had this discussion, and yet… now he was vexed with an irrational jealousy. Not about Sherlock’s past, but all the unknowns since he’d met him. The Woman, Janine, the two years he was gone and all the time after that…

Stop. This wasn’t fair, or productive -- damn it.

John impulsively leaned across the table and swept his mouth over Sherlock’s, following some ridiculously primal urge to lay claim on him.

Initially startled, Sherlock gradually rose from his chair. John captured his bottom lip between his own, roughly pulled him closer, straining against the damned table in the way, knocking things sideways, turning over a tea cup; fuck, how he wanted him.


	12. The Room Burned

The tea cup lay tipped on top of the newspaper, unheeded as Sherlock rounded the table and grasped John by the shoulders. He propelled him back against the wall, almost pinning him with the length of his body as he searched his face. He wanted to be absolutely certain that what he just read in John’s eyes and actions was real.

Within a few short breaths their intentions were unspoken, mutually understood.

They stumbled toward the bed, driven more by hunger than tenderness, stripping off shirts, digging impatiently at waistbands, abandoning clothing on the floor, never losing contact. Mouths and hands took in the discovery of skin and musculature, new valleys and angles to be explored like strange maps of familiar places.

John pressed Sherlock down onto his back, ran his hand over his hip, wrapped his fingers around his cock and began to slowly stroke him, his lips trailing along his jawline.

Sherlock closed his eyes, shutting off one sense to focus on the building pleasure that only increased when he felt John’s mouth continue down his neck, his chest, his stomach, and -- holy hell -- the wet heat surrounding him, slick and sliding. Oh god, some animalistic noise escaped from his own throat, his fingers bunched the sheets.

The motions grew faster, more intense until his hips rutted, light and sound dropping away, muffled. His breath caught once, twice, hanging on a drawn-out tension before it rippled outward again as he came, shuddering, possibly swearing.

His mind remained blank, buzzing, until he surfaced to find John stretching out beside him. They both gazed at the ceiling as their breath returned, bodies cooling momentarily.

Sherlock turned on his side, placing a hand on John’s thigh. He felt the muscle beneath his fingers, strong, compact. He slowly sat up, following his hand as it slid down to John’s calf. He discovered an old, thin scar on his shin; 5, no, 6 stitches long.

His palm slid upward again, pushing John’s knee aside as he shifted to kneel between his legs, his arms braced above him. Sherlock dipped his mouth to John’s, gentle at first, tasting, growing rougher.

He gradually leaned back, running his hands down John’s chest, ribs, hips, as if testing the solidity of his bones; skimmed his fingers along the inside of John’s thighs. He watched for John’s response, his actions rather noticeably increasing his arousal.

He locked eyes with John for a moment before lowering his head. He heard a sharp intake of breath, a soft exhalation; felt a hand sliding through his hair, then seizing.

Time fell away. London didn’t exist. The room burned with years of want; the world was now the bed: tangled sheets, entwined limbs, unguarded gasps; a haze of fingers, tongues, unrestricted exploration.

The morning smoldered on until they lay face to face, sated and wordless, fingertips resting lightly against each other's chest.


	13. Clandestine

John noticed the morgue smelled strongly of disinfectant and the floor was damp, signalling the recent completion of another autopsy.

They had come to inquire about an unidentified woman, a possible third victim of the same killer. Molly Hooper was on duty, hair tied back, white coat and gloves on. She pulled out a drawer, folded down the sheet, stood back as he and Sherlock examined the body. Mid-40s, dark complexion, average height, probably quite attractive when she’d been alive.

Molly scanned the report. “Apart from the stab wounds, there’s bruising around her wrists.”

“Could be forced," Sherlock said, then raised an eyebrow at John. “Or recreational.”

John fought back a smirk as Sherlock looked more closely at the dead woman’s hands. "Photos?”

“Um, yes, but I’ll have to print another set.”

“We’ll wait.” Sherlock pulled out his phone, walked away, already thinking ten moves ahead.

John shrugged at Molly. “I’ll come with you.”

He stood in the doorway of the cramped office as Molly located and sent the image files to the printer. She sat back, looking thoughtful. “How have you been, John?”

“Good. Fine. You?”

“Good. I’ve taken up painting,” she said simply. “I like it.” Her eyes flicked up. “You seem… happy."

“Do I?”

“Yes,” she glanced past John at Sherlock. “So does he.”

John, taken off guard, didn't know what to say.

“Finished.” She handed him the photos, smiling. “Good luck. With the case, I mean.”

“Thanks,” John nodded, hesitated, then nodded again. He caught up with Sherlock, who was pocketing his phone.

“Ready?”

John nodded a third time. They walked down the underlit corridor and outside into the dark.

In the taxi back to Baker Street, John glanced at Sherlock, who was looking out the window, thinking. John watched the tendon in his neck flex, wanted to lay his mouth on it, leave a purple bruise that could not be easily explained away.

But no, that would be too public of a declaration. Let people speculate, as they had for years. Yet Molly, ever observant, had noticed. Happy, she'd said. John smiled. She was right.

The cab was dark, the driver intent on the traffic and radio. John placed his hand on Sherlock’s knee, slowly slid it up his leg, then between his thighs. Sherlock glanced down, then at John. Cast in shadows, they leaned closer, their mouths briefly brushing, and John felt Sherlock’s fingers slip between his legs in reciprocation.

Several moments passed, hands clandestine, coaxing. But there were practical limits to consider, halting their surreptitious exchange. John took a deep breath; Sherlock exhaled. They remained outwardly impassive, facing forward, heads resting against the back of the seat. They sank a bit lower, shoulders and legs touching. They soon would be at Baker Street.

 _Ding._ A text interrupted the inky intimacy of the back seat.

Sherlock retrieved his phone, read the message. “Lestrade... It can wait.” He turned, his mouth tantalizingly near John’s ear. “Home first, don’t you think?”

John nodded a fourth time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little Molly shout-out to directedbysherlock. ; )


	14. Melting Ice

Sherlock steepled his fingers beneath his chin and stared at the inbox messages on the screen, occasionally reaching down to jab a key. Incredibly / _delete_ / fucking / _delete_ / pedestrian / _delete_ / problems.

John walked by, looked over his shoulder. "Anything good?"

"Nothing." _Delete_. Sherlock glanced up. "Aren't you working today?"

"I did already. I've been back almost an hour."

"Oh." He read a few lines of the next message. Spurned lover. _Delete_. He snapped the lid shut in annoyance, stood, paced a few steps. "I'm going out." He grabbed his suit jacket, shrugged it on.

"Do you--"

"No." He left, preoccupied, realizing once he was on the pavement that he'd probably been overly rude again. Boredom, combined with the unusually warm weather, made him more irritable than necessary. He slipped on a pair of sunglasses against the afternoon sun, was forced to pull off his jacket again as he walked. God, the heat just amplified the most profoundly awful odors of the city's alleyways and gutters.

In need of a cool, quiet sanctuary, he headed to his favorite library.

Several hours later, refreshed by arcane facts, deckle edges, and solitude, he returned to the flat. He was slightly surprised that John was absent. He checked his phone. No text.

Fine. He poured himself a Scotch, added ice to cool it down. Probably not the best choice on an empty stomach, but so be it. He took his laptop to the sofa, scrolled through the remaining messages.

He looked up when he heard the stairs creak with John's familiar footsteps.

"You're back," John said, his face flushed.

"Obviously." Sherlock took another drink, watching as John sat down a bit unsteadily next to him. "Pub?"

"Pubs. Plural. With Stamford." John crossed his arms, uncrossed them, laid his head back against the sofa. "You coulda come. I tried to ask."

"Not really my thing." He set the laptop on the table.

"Right." John closed his eyes. "Too many people. Noise." He opened one eye. "Where'd you go?"

"Library. Few people. Quiet."

"Mmm." John crossed his arms again, lids closing. "Sounds terrible." He laughed to himself.

Sherlock smiled, observing John over the rim of his glass, taking in his long lashes, his mussed hair. He was still amazed that John patiently endured his unpleasant moods and sullen habits. He would try to be… nicer.

He drained the rest of the Scotch, letting a piece of ice fall into his mouth, then leaned over and placed his lips on John's.

John’s eyes flew open, startled by the action and the cold and the taste of whiskey. "What's that for?"

Sherlock paused. "For accepting me.”

John settled back, wrapping a hand around the back of Sherlock's neck. "Yeah, well, you are a rude prick, but I try to ignore it.”

Just then the melting ice that had fused in the Scotch collapsed, broke apart, clinking against the glass.

The drink was going to his head, Sherlock noticed abstractedly. He felt light as he sought out John's mouth again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little back story: This is an unplanned bonus chapter I wrote recently while sitting in the New Orleans airport during a 6-hour delay after my flight was cancelled. So that's the source of the warm weather and irritability. But I loved New Orleans.


	15. Undone

John had meant to close his eyes for only a short while. He’d gone to his room to change after a long day of interviewing sources for a case while Sherlock worked another angle. He’d spoken to so many desk sergeants, former landlords, co-workers, and ex-girlfriends that his voice was hoarse. His bed had looked so inviting, the pillow so soft…

Now the sound of turning pages gradually entered his consciousness. He was fond of that cozy sound. It also meant that Sherlock had joined him in his bed. They spent most nights now in Sherlock’s room, unless John was avoiding a particularly unbearable mood or barrage of rapid-fire intensity.

John drifted in and out of wakefulness, finally opening his eyes to the sight of Sherlock reading, sleeves rolled up, the book balanced on his drawn up knees. His thumb absently rubbed against his bottom lip, a motion John found mesmerizing. The silver casing of Sherlock’s watch gleamed in the soft light as his hand moved back and forth, the band a dark slash against his pale skin.

It was a handsome watch, but it reminded John of work and schedules, everything he didn’t want imposed on him at this late hour. He sat up, and Sherlock lifted his head from the book. Without a word, John dropped his mouth to the side of Sherlock’s neck, moving up to draw in that tempting bottom lip. The book closed.

“The day’s done. Take this off,” John murmured, reaching for Sherlock’s left hand.

He turned Sherlock’s wrist over, letting it rest against his thigh. With slow fingers, he threaded the black watch strap back through the buckle, pulled on the supple leather with gentle tension until the pin slipped from its hole, slid the tapered end though the final bracket. The loop undone, he let the watch, solid and smooth and heavy, fall into his palm, the metal still warm, the faintest scent of leather rising up.

He closed his hand around it for a moment, feeling the pleasing heft, then set the timepiece on the nightstand. Turning back, he lowered his lips to Sherlock’s wrist, the vulnerable network of bluish-green veins visible beneath his fingers.

He lifted his eyes to Sherlock, who looked as if he’d forgotten how to breathe. John had surprised him, seduced him. He wasn’t done.

He pulled off his own t-shirt, began to slowly undo the buttons of Sherlock’s white shirt. John paused after each unfastening to kiss the skin laid bare, traveling a leisurely downward path as they drifted ever lower onto the bed. Throat. Torso. Waist. The hollow by a hip bone. He could see Sherlock bite his lower lip, unraveling.

His fingers worked at Sherlock's trousers, unzipping, his hand delving deeper. He relished the moment his touch finally made Sherlock arch and reach for him.

John ran his tongue along his ear, whispered words that caused Sherlock to close his eyes and pull him closer. The forgotten book tumbled to the floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was another unplanned bonus chapter, this time roughed out at 32,000 feet. Imaginative readers: What do you think John whispered to Sherlock?


	16. Small Spaces Opened Up

Sherlock picked his phone up from the ground, the knuckles on his hand bloodied. The phone had dropped during the altercation; now the glass lens was shattered into a spiderweb pattern. _Damn._

He tucked an envelope into his jacket, pulled the pocket square from the dark suit of the man lying unconscious on the floor, wrapped the cloth around his injured hand, slid the man’s gun into the back of his waistband. He quickly left.

Adrenaline was still coursing through his body when the large black car pulled up silently alongside him. A half hour later he was dropped off at Baker Street. He entered the flat, saw curiosity on John’s face, then concern when he noticed the makeshift bandage. After depositing the envelope on the desk, he placed the gun on top.

“What the hell is that?” John looked shocked.

“Crucial documents. Oh, and a Glock.”

“Jesus, Sherlock... ” John covered his mouth, sighed. “Let’s fix up your hand.” They moved to the kitchen.

“Someone took a thrashing,” John muttered as he worked. He noticed Sherlock staring at the table where he’d just been sitting down to eat. “You’re actually hungry?”

“Ravenous.”

As they ate, Sherlock brought John up to speed, leaving out the part about the gun being leveled at his head. He checked his phone, frowned at the cracked screen again. He’d be billing Mycroft for that.

Sherlock took a quick shower, changed, then returned to the desk, still ruminating about the case as he opened the laptop. Two hours passed.

When he looked up again, he registered John in his chair reading, a few lamps lighting the dark. Sherlock removed the documents from the envelope, crossed the room to the sofa, pinned them among the other case notes on the wall. He flexed his sore hand, became aware of John standing beside him, examining the new additions.

Sherlock’s focus slowly gravitated from the case to John’s steady presence. He’d been consumed by the work for days, barely pausing. He’d taken a calculated risk going alone to retrieve the papers. But this time, unlike the other times he'd faced a bullet, a hot line of fear had seared through his core.

“Everything all right?” John asked.

Here, at home, it was. With John as his touchstone, he could always recenter himself. Without him, he fragmented, went adrift. “I’m fine.”

“You sure?” John touched his arm, sensing something was unspoken.

Sherlock answered with several gentle, grateful kisses that lingered, grew languorous, unfolded into want. They sank to the sofa, falling into a slow disarray, buttons slipping out of their holes, fingers brushing past fabric.

The sofa was really too small, too cramped, but limbs adjusted, small spaces opened up for a knee, an elbow, their bodies finding a fit as they lay back.

They pushed off more clothes, skin against skin, friction and hard desire; a foot on the floor, bracing; a leg lifted, wrapping; the sofa rocking; a loose paper on the wall above wafting in their wake.


	17. True North

John paused by the desk, glancing at the recently acquired and highly illegal handgun. The Glock rested casually atop the lock box holding his own firearm of dubious legality.

When he’d questioned the wisdom of keeping it, Sherlock had scoffed, muttered that Mycroft would take care of any problems. “It’ll be fine.”

Right. It’d be fine. He drummed his fingers a few times against the chair, then continued on to the kitchen with the parcel that had arrived that morning. He set the package on the table, stared at it.

He heard Sherlock come up the stairs, felt him at his back. He knew he was reading the label and noticing the lack of a return address.

“It’s from Harry,” John explained. “She texted me a few days ago. She’s been going through some old things.”

"Nostalgia,” Sherlock said, circling around to the other side of the table. “Are you going to open it?”

John shrugged. “Maybe later.”

The package sat untouched for several days, was eventually moved to a shelf, then ignored until a night John couldn’t sleep.

In the small hours of the morning he sliced through the tape and cardboard, lifted out a handful of photos, certificates, and trinkets -- a compass, a pen knife, a tarnished coin. A rush of echoes washed over him.

He sifted through the photos, then held one for a long time before placing it back on the table. He stood up, leaving everything spread out as he returned to bed.

A few hours later he was back in the kitchen making coffee. Sherlock was up, dressed, and looking at the objects laid on the table. He picked up a photograph.

“Harry and me,” John offered, looking over his shoulder. “We were maybe 9 and 12.”

Sherlock lingered over another photo of a man and woman. “Your parents.”

“Yeah. That was before… Well, that was when they were happy.”

Sherlock placed the photo down carefully, then lightly touched a finger to the compass. “One fixed point,” he said absently.

“My father gave that to me when I was in primary school,” John recalled. He drifted back as Sherlock examined the odd smattering of his history, deducing God knows what.

A year ago he never would have shared these things with Sherlock; probably would not have even opened the box. Now remnants of his past were in the hands of the person who mattered most to him in the present.

John felt his throat tighten, suddenly overwhelmed with a surge of emotions. He turned away, busied himself by pouring a cup of coffee. His hands were steady again when he lifted the mug to take a drink.

He turned back to the table, picked up the compass. They both watched as the red needle quivered, rotated to point directly at his chest.

He met Sherlock's eyes. “True north.”

“Magnetic north, actually.”

John smiled, shook his head. “Never mind.” Still holding the compass and coffee, he stretched up to reach Sherlock’s perfect, impossible mouth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last chapter in this collection of stories. Hope you enjoyed the journey! I’m actually kind of sad to end this series, but at least the boys are in a happy place. Please consider bookmarking or rec’ing if you liked it. Thanks for reading!


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